The Time It Takes
by NellietheMarvelous
Summary: Episode tag to Kill Shot. 'She wants to be okay again. She wants to be different, be better. Stop hiding from her friends - from Castle.'
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Just borrowing with every intention of returning...  
**

**A/N: For Becca. Because it's okay to feel sad but hopefully this will make you feel just a little better. If not, we can just be sad together.  
**

**Also spoilers for Kill Shot**

She hates it. A deep burning hatred for something she has no control over. That's the problem - her lack of control. The way she feels. How it seeps into her muscles, digging down, twining around the bone until she's overtaken. No longer a whole human being but something fractured, broken, shattered. So many ways to describe it and yet none of them fit. She's terrified of her own apartment. Scared of windows and tall buildings. Lights reflecting off of things and cars backfiring send her into a heart racing, nerves scrambling fit. It throws her back to that day, the scar burning as if the bullet has just ripped through her skin, shredding at her, intent to end her life. She hates it.

She's a shell of a person. Cracked and oozing. Her insides leaking out. Secrets and thoughts, fears and dreams. Everything jumbles together, spilling out in a pool of tears as she huddles into the couch, hugs the pillow to her as if it's some sort of lifeline. Fingers crushing at the seams, gripping so tight they start to ache. She wants to be okay again. She wants to be different, be better. Stop hiding from her friends - from Castle.

She wipes at her face with a rough hand, angry at herself. Not even really caring that her arm is stinging, the bandage itchy and hot. Just another secret. More proof of how damaged she is. She doesn't understand why she's still here, why she isn't dead, why it haunts her. She wants it _gone. _She doesn't have time for this. To be feeling sorry for herself and unable to handle something as simple as a good nights sleep. She hates it. Every single bit of it.

The way she checks her locks repeatedly, how she sleeps with her hand inches from her gun, the way she fights against invisible demons that wake her, leave her stumbling around, searching for some kind of solace in the night. You'd think she'd be comfortable here, alone and in control of the environment but she's not. She feels safer at the precinct, surrounded by people, than she does in her own apartment with the deadbolt thrown and shrinking into her couch.

She's going to do this. She's going to get better but it seems so far away, almost an impossibility at this point. She'll try, put in the time, because there's part of her wanting to dive in. To tell him she remembers and that it's honestly one of the only reasons she's still going. Why her heart is still beating, why she fought against the gray abyss, why she's fighting against it now and trying to fix herself.

Sometimes she thinks she's okay, and then she has days like the last few and everything just reaffirms that she's lying to herself. To everyone. Always lying. Covering things up, pushing them down, choking them back. She needs to stop. She _wants_ to. She doesn't want to be this ball on the couch that's bleeding into everyone else, affecting them in negative ways. Making them hurt too.

And when she starts to slip. To find herself feeling like she's got a target on her chest and someone is just waiting to strike. She closes her eyes, focuses on the sounds around her to pull her back. All she really hears are her sniffles, the occasional choked sob, and traffic. She can hear traffic. Horns honking, tires screeching, sirens. And then a soft tapping, close by.

Her heart starts racing, pounding out an unsteady rhythm as her eyes fly open, hand reaching for the gun just a few feet away. Too close. It's too close. She swipes her fingers over her eyes, forces herself to not panic. Deep breaths, a trembling hand releasing the gun as she hears it again, realizes what it is. A soft rapping against her door. Soft - as if the person on the other side knows how she reacts to loud right now.

She wants to take her gun. Wants that safe weight in her palm. So she does - even though she's pretty sure only one person would be bothering her at this hour, she needs this. A security blanket. And she lets herself have it, the weapon poised at her side as she makes her way to the door. Chest rising and falling with each slightly panicked breath. She knows, _knows _this is ridiculous. The fear. But she can't make it stop. It doesn't just go away.

Not even when she sees the man standing on the other side. It dissipates, becomes a nagging in the back of her mind but it's still there. Although she's not sure how she feels about him showing up like this, when she's a few tears shy of an emotional wreck, his presence is almost uplifting. Almost enough to have her feeling a little bit safer. She doesn't understand why.

But she's spent days pushing against him, and he's let her. He hasn't pushed back, hasn't made her open up and she's grateful because honestly, she just _can't_. Maybe that's why she lets him in or maybe it's the look on his face as he waves a bag of take out towards her. White. Blindingly white and all she can think of, is that this is him calling a truce. Waving the flag. He's right. She owes him so many coffees and yet, he's still bringing her things. More coffee. Food. His company and she doesn't deserve any of it. But she wants to.

He doesn't say anything about the gun in her hand but his eyes follow it as she lays it to rest on the coffee table. And then she hears his breath catch, eyes gluing to her wrist and she silently berates herself for not thinking about it. Not making sure it was hidden. She's in her own home, already in her pajamas, she wasn't thinking.

But now she is because he's staring, frozen, not even sitting down or dropping the food to the table. Just staring. Honest blue eyes locked, making her rub over her arm, wincing just a bit when it stings.

"Are we going to eat or just stand around?" She's tries to break the uncomfortable ice that just formed. It doesn't work but he finally moves, putting the bag of food down with a careful calculated motion that startles her more than his staring.

She can see that he's holding himself back, trying to still be a good friend, a good partner. The one that gives her space but right now, she's not sure she wants the space. Maybe she just wants him to pry - only a little. Not much because she can't handle it but enough to show he'll be here. Even if she's damaged goods. She's afraid.

"Beckett, what -"

"I'm fine." She's not. It's lies. All lies. This isn't what she means by him prying. She doesn't want him asking what happened. Because she can't tell him. She can't explain how she's suffering, having flashbacks, nightmares. He doesn't need to know. Not until she's better. Not until she's no longer this broken thing. Not even a person. Just a thing. A mess.

"Kate," She catches his gaze, offers a brush off of a smile because he's using her name and as good as it sounds, it just reminds her of his confession. The one she's keeping from him. The one he thinks she can't remember. Just another lie. _I'm fine. I don't remember._

"Chinese? Smells good -"

"What happened?" She wishes she could tell him. Wants so badly to just open her mouth and let it pour out but she's not that kind. She isn't that person so she pretends it's okay, flops down on the couch, clutching at the pillow again and just waiting for him to sit. He doesn't. He keeps watching her, gaze raking over her, probably checking for more injuries. He isn't going to calm down until she says something, so she gives a sigh, tries to hide away the truth.

"Nothing important."

"You're sure?" And this is why..._this_ is why she hides because the look on his face, his eyes so open with her and not even concealing his feelings - she can't deal with it. Not yet. Not now. Not when everything is spinning out of control. But at least he's finally sitting down next to her.

"Come on Castle, let's eat." Because she isn't ready but she's not pushing him away either. She let him through the door, knowing how he feels and she'll do this. Have dinner. Laugh when he says something funny. Offer him a glass of wine to go with her own.

"N-no one hurt you?"

"No. I just had a clumsy moment." He doesn't need to know that it was alcohol and PTSD induced. That she's barely slept in the last few days or how it felt when she came around enough to realize that glass was embedded in her skin.

"Can I see-" He reaches for her arm but she pulls it back, flinching away from him as if he's the bad guy. As if he's the one who has turned her into this. She watches the hurt flash across his features and turn into something cold. Something she doesn't like. It doesn't fit him. "Maybe this wasn't a good idea. I should go."

He hasn't even been here more than five minutes. And maybe he's right. Maybe it's not a good idea because she's stumbling around, trying to balance as her world shakes around her but damn it, she doesn't want him to leave. She might not want to talk but she doesn't want him gone. Because the panic she feels - the tightening in her chest - lessens when he's around. It doesn't go away but it becomes a bearable thing. A knot she can hold onto, keep from unraveling.

And she misses him. Feels like it's been days because she's been suffering through on her own. Painting on the brave face. She wants him to stay. She doesn't know how to fix this. He's already off the couch and she's still just sitting, staring off into space as she tries to think of something. Anything. She's a mess and he's what she wants but she can't have him. Not like this and it hurts. It aches. But she needs company right now. She doesn't want to be alone. She doesn't want to go back to crying on her couch and letting her own mind play tricks on her.

The door is opening, she hears it, cuts her eyes over to it and there's a brief second. One tiny moment that can change things, she can take a step in the right direction or she can let him leave, continue self destructing. One split second and she's opening her mouth, letting the plea tumble out. Not even ashamed that she sounds a little lost. She _is_ lost.

"Wait..." And he does, pausing and turning to look at her expectantly - he waits. But doesn't he always?

**a/n: There's a second part to this.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Not mine.  
**

**A/N: I don't really write for other people's enjoyment. I write to get the ideas out of my head but I admit that it's a really great feeling when others do actually enjoy my words. So for every person who reads this (or any of my fics), Thank you.  
**

She doesn't say a word more, doesn't try to explain why she's asking so much of him. Barely moves. Her breathing slowing down, becoming shallow as she worries. As she panics just slightly, her lips parting because she _wants _to say more. She wants to open up and she can't. It's a block, a rock, something heavy that settles, makes her mouth snap shut and her eyes drop. And it's moments like these that terrify her more than loud noises and flashbacks because she's afraid she'll never find an end to this suffering - that she'll never be okay. But she can't give up. She won't give up, not when it comes to this. Not when he's the one thing that's been there through so much.

The thought of him walking out hurts. Physically aches in her chest, and the knot tightens around her heart. It clenches until she's sure it'll stop beating. That it'll give out under the duress but then she hears it - the soft click of the door closing. He's waiting. Waiting like he always does for something, anything and she doesn't really know what to give him. She doesn't know what will help but she needs this. She needs another try.

He's here, he brought food. He isn't pushing, not really and she needs to buck up. She needs to give him something. A reason to stay. She lifts her gaze, meets his from across the room and then in a slightly awkward move that she hopes makes sense, she raises her arm and lets him see the bandage. He takes a breath, she can hear it. It's louder than his footsteps as he closes the distance between them, coming back to the couch - the place she's still frozen in. But his eyes never leave hers, not until he's slowly reclaiming the spot next to her.

She must be doing something right. He reaches, fingers ghosting along the back of her hand, but she's not watching - she's too busy staring at his face. Waiting for some sign of what's going on. She has no idea what they're doing anymore. Doesn't want to over analyze the heat that floods her veins at the soft touch, the way he cups her palm with one hand, trails along the bandage with another.

"Kate," It's soft, a whisper and she rotates her arm, shows him the injured side even though it's hidden behind a mask of white. She almost wonders if this is symbolic. She's trying to open up, to fix herself but there's still a mask. A wall that keeps him from seeing the raw wounds. The ones on her arm, the ones on her heart, the ones on her psyche. "You didn't have to -"

"I did." It's just as quiet, barely even words. Her vocal chords failing to make them anything more than slight fluctuations in a sigh. His touch is too soft. Too forgiving. She doesn't deserve this. The way she can feel his fingers through the wrapping and the gauze, it's like a harsh kick start to the chest. A shock to her heart, something jolting that makes it shake, causes it to beat faster.

"Why?"

And it's the one thing she doesn't want to answer. _Because I think I love you too. _It's on her tongue, begging to be released but she doesn't. She bites it back. She's not ready. He's not ready. She goes with something safer, less complicated.

"To show you I'm fine." It has a smile tugging at his lips, almost accomplishing it. His thumb presses, a sharp flash of pain shooting through her and she's hissing, flinching to keep herself from pulling her arm back to her side.

"Sorry. I'm sorry."

"S'okay." She tries not to get distracted. Tries not to forget the thoughts racing in her head and the way she's so messed up but he's stroking now, the same spot he'd just pushed against and she can feel it. Feel the circular motion. She knows it'd be better skin on skin, knows he probably wants to see what's hiding beneath her bandage but she's not there yet and he's too cautious to ask. "Castle, thank you."

She hopes he understands. She hopes he knows the amount of courage it takes for her to say this, for her to open her mouth and force the words out.  
Something tells her that he does, because the blue of his eyes lock with her watery ones - the tears already building. She fights against them, swallows the knot twisting together in her throat, twining down into her chest, tugging just behind her scar.

She doesn't want to break in front of him. She's not sure she can handle it or what it would mean. But she's thanking him for waiting, for giving her this. For bringing her dinner, weaseling his way into her life - her home - because even if she will never admit this to him, she likes that he's here. That he doesn't give up.

He understands. She can see it dancing there in his stare. Something light compared to the darkness that had settled moments ago. He's still touching her, still caressing but he's moved on from inspecting her injuries to stroking his thumb over her palm. She's so tired. Tired of everything, of doing this alone. Of suffering in silence and hiding things. She doesn't want secrets anymore. She just wants to be more. To be whole. To be ready, for him. She owes him the truth and an explanation. And now that he's here, proving once again that he'll stick by her, she's leaning closer. Her body seeking his and the warmth he offers.

The comfort of his presence drawing her closer until she's bumping against his shoulder, pulling her hand from his to bring it up and gently twist her fingers in his shirt. Keeping him here, not letting him pull away until he's heard her out. She needs to let it go, let it be free. She wants to heal and part of her thinks maybe - just maybe - she needs to start with this. She needs to start with honesty.

"I didn't feel it. I broke a glass but I didn't even notice." She's staring at his neck, unable to watch him react. "Stings a bit but I'll be okay."

He's confused. She knows that for sure without even seeing his face. Can feel it in the way he's tensed, the way he just sits as if he doesn't know what to do with his hands. And she's not ready, she knows she isn't but she really just wishes he'd touch her. Like she's touching him. One hand clenching in his shirt, right at the shoulder and the other sneaking its way up his back.

He's not saying anything and it worries her. This is Castle. She doesn't like it when he's silent. When he's bouncing around in his head and not letting the words out. He's supposed to be the talkative one. But he isn't and that means it's her turn. Her turn to do something to bridge the gap. Her turn to step up. It's her game. And she clings a little tighter, turning her body into his, her chin raising as she makes her decision.

She knows what she is - shared it with Javi - and now it's time to share it with someone else. She's the one pushing this time. Forcing herself to do this. To swallow the bitter pill. She can feel his breaths, the way he's trying to control them and she twists a little further, her knee nudging into his thigh. It snaps him, makes his fingers finally seek. A careful hand touching her knee, eyes questioning and the only thing she has to offer is an attempt at a smile.

It falls through, her thoughts raging in her head. Every nerve in her body telling her she shouldn't be doing this. She needs to wait. But she's so damn tired of doing this alone. Of lying to him and she's doing this. She's doing it and if he leaves, if he walks away then it's for the best. He deserves to know. A stubborn tear spills out but she doesn't reach to wipe it away. Her hands are too busy and she doesn't want him to leave. He's going to leave. She's already preparing for it.

"What are you -"

"I remember." It's a rushed whisper, barely audible. He doesn't react, not at first. He doesn't get it and then she's scooting closer, begging him without words to just put two and two together. She's damaged goods. She's broken. She's a mess. "Castle, I remember everything."

He knows immediately, she sees it shift within him. Muscles contracting beneath her hands, his fingers moving away from her, eyes hardening and she clenches at his shirt until her knuckles are white. Chases his gaze when he tries to pull it away.

"Why?" She knows what he's asking. Why now? Why lie? Why didn't she just tell him?

"I - I'm not...I'm not _me_." It's as close to she's come to admitting it out loud in his presence. And it makes her want to run. Her legs itching to carry her away, to hide. She fights it. Hates herself for feeling like this. She's bad news, there's no way she can have anything near a healthy relationship when she can't even get out of her own head. "I don't know if I ever will be. I don't know how to be."

And that's the problem. The one she doesn't want to face. She's afraid she'll never get passed this. Never learn to move on. To deal with things in a healthier way. Even with help from a professional, she worries that it just won't work. That she's too wounded. She doesn't want that for him. She doesn't want to be the one to poison him, to ruin everything between them.

She's the one to go rigid, the one to lose the air from her lungs when his palm cups her cheek, the hurt still lingering in his eyes but not as heavily. He's hesitant, so is she. They don't do this. They don't touch like this. She doesn't know how to be this person but she tries. For him. She tries to push the awkwardness away, pressing further into his hand, eyes closing as another tear leaks through her lashes.

"You're Kate. You are."

"M'not. Damaged goods, Castle."

"Anything damaged can be repaired." It's not true. He's trying to make her feel better but she knows that's not true. Some things are too broken, too busted up and shredded. "I don't understand. I don't know why you would lie to me unless you're embarrassed or trying not to hurt my feelings or -"

"No._ No_, just not enough. I'm not enough right now." He's frowning when she opens her eyes, brow creased in deep concentration as he searches for something on her face. She doesn't know what he's looking for. More maybe. She doesn't have it. She's not even making sense as it is and there's no way she can begin to explain anything more right now. Maybe one day. Maybe even soon but not tonight.

"Then let me help you." It's an honest request, a simple one. Made with pleading eyes and hands that become just a little more brave, one sliding to her hip, the other stroking at her cheek. He's not the only one. She pushes into him, an uncomfortable angle that knocks his fingers from her face as she eliminates the space between them. Her nose against his neck, breathing him in. Hands at his back as his slide up her spine in a similar fashion. And she's still unsure.

She still doesn't know. She's not sure he can help. Not when just hugging him feels like a foreign concept. Uncomfortable and a little stiff but she wants it to be easier. Maybe all she needs is time. Because even if it's awkward, this is the safest she's felt in months. She feels him whisper it again, another _'please just let me'_ and she's unable to do anything more than nod against him, sigh the only word she can think of into his skin.

"Okay."

"Food's probably cold." And it's such a ridiculous statement that she's huffing a laugh against him, thankful that he's still capable of joking when she's just spilled a huge secret but she can feel it in him - feel the energy roll of of him in waves. He's angry. He's doing his best to keep it under wraps but he's upset and she's sorry.

"Don't care." She doesn't. She's more concerned with this. With showing him that she's going to do her best to come out on the other side, to face him fully. To be worthy.

**a/n: And we've reached the end of this little story - my gift to Becca. (also this may or may not be one of my favorite fics I've done)  
**


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